*****
2nd Interlude:
(September 20, 1421, Shire Reckoning: )
Rosie was staying with her family; Sam cooked the meal, and it was delicious--leftovers of one of Rosie's meat pies, carrots, steamed cabbage, brown bread and fresh butter, and peaches with heavy cream--Frodo sat filling up the corners, taking a break from speaking, downing his beer in slow long swallows. He looked so tired, Sam thought . . . all the years of bearing the Ring lay heavily upon him, and something more besides. "You never spoke of her during the quest, sir. It had me sore troubled, but what was I to do? Didn't seem proper for me to bring it up seeing as you was keeping quiet on the matter, so I sort of fought to forget it. But I now have to wonder--what happened after? She wasn't with the marriage party that came from Rivendell with Arwen. Something bad happened, I reckon, but I never really found out what. You kept it close, Mr. Frodo; as close as ever a Bagginses could. Why are you so nervous to see her now?"
Frodo finished his beer and rubbed his hand--the maimed one--over his brow, as if to wipe away something. The memory, perhaps.
He spoke in a low voice, deep with regret. "Yes, Sam. Something bad happened. Bad, and wonderful, at the same time it seemed, and I'm afraid I reacted exactly wrong. I should have let her go after our perfect farewell. I should have been satisfied. But I wasn't. I tried to grab more . . . and lost everything. Including her love."
Sam shook his head, bemused that his dear master could have done such a thing, and even more that he had kept silent about it all this time. He cleaned up their supper, settled Frodo in his favorite chair by the fire, and settled himself down at his feet to softly rub Frodo's hand which often troubled him in the evenings, looking expectantly up at him not unlike a hobbit child waiting for its bedtime tale. Frodo smiled sadly, his eyes damp, and continued to tell his story.
*****
April 5, 1419, Shire Reckoning:
Frodo woke up first.
Just the fact he had woken up at all, when he never expected to, gave him reason to pause, to lie for a moment and contemplate things. He was awake. The air was clean--he could smell spring in the air, growing things, and something else--aethelas. How very strange. He hadn't smelled that since he left Aragorn and the others of the Fellowship to take the Ring . . . he wiggled his fingers. Yes. It was gone. The Ring, the finger, all of it--half his soul, gone. He glanced over at the other bed in the room and saw Sam sleeping and half choked on a sob. Was that really Sam, looking so pale and drawn and *thin*, big circles under his eyes and his lips swollen and chapped? Frodo licked his own lips. Yes, the same. But he had woken first. And where was, he, anyway?
"In Ithilien, and today is April 5th in the Shire Reckoning." Frodo turned and gaped. Gandalf?!
"You're alive?" he managed to ask. His voice was a mere whisper, thin and ragged.
"And so are you. A most remarkable outcome, if you think about it. Are you hungry? We did not expect you to wake today--truly you are stronger than you appear, Frodo Baggins. Some bread and soup, I think would be wisest to start with. We have been feeding you only honey water and broth." Gandalf was white, Frodo noted--entirely white, and more powerful than ever. How did he know that? Echoes--echoes of the Ring. He would be changed forever.
"That sounds fine. Will Sam wake soon?" What to say to Sam, who had carried him he didn't know how far in the last days, who must have neglected himself to make sure Frodo carried on, and who again after the end, after Gollum and the Ring fell into the Cracks of Doom, forced Frodo to keep going to try and save himself? Frodo's mind was awhirl. He was supposed to be dead. He wasn't supposed to have lived. What was life going to be now?
In a daze he ate what Gandalf gave him, saw Aragorn peek in on him--he didn't know what to say to Aragorn, who he realized was going to be King now. He didn't know what to say to anyone. He was in shock, he supposed. Everything felt like a dream. Then Gandalf gave him some juice to drink, and there must have been something in the juice, for once again dreams found him, and he slept. When he awoke, Sam was stirring and it was the next day.
Everything floated by in a dreamy sort of haze. The field of Cormallen, seeing Merry and Pippin, and sad sad Legolas crying out for the sea, and Gimli, and hearing strange tales of Ents and Merry's valiant strike against the Witchking--it all blurred together into some strange tale he should be reading at Bilbo's feet in the Shire. But he ached. His hand, and something else too--he would never be filled, never be at peace. Like a hollow shell he ate and gained strength and watched days pass, but he was somehow disconnected. He heard of the plans of Aragorn's crowning and hints of a possible wedding in the future.
And suddenly he thought of Mornenêl. He had survived; he had succeeded. What would happen now? Would she come with Arwen's wedding party, or would she still be in Rivendell when he eventually returned to the Shire? Did he have anything left to give her?
Aragorn was very busy these days--perhaps he was not yet King but he was commander of the forces that had gone to meet Sauron's army at the gates of Mordor--images flashed in Frodo's mind of the tales Pippin had told him, his mithril shirt held aloft, the depair, Pippin fighting a troll--a mountain troll--he looked so different in his Gondorian armor . . . Frodo fought to keep thoughts in order. He knew exactly what Sam was talking about when he said they'd have to sit Frodo down later to take it all down, take notes. He felt so lost most of the time now. A leaf in the breeze. Purposeless. Yes, that was it--his task was completed. He had no more tasks. And no more will to find a new one.
When he found Aragorn and tried to ask him about whether the rumors were true, Aragorn only shook his had and said they must wait. Not all was certain, yet. "In a few days we will return to Minas Tirith. You can see the city you helped to save. Just rest, Frodo. I know you are still recovering from your labors. Don't think of the future, not yet. Enjoy the present."
"If Arwen comes," Frodo asked, unable to hold back his curiosity, to do what Aragorn suggested, "If she comes, do you think Mornenêl will come also?"
Aragorn sighed, clasping his hands before him as he gazed out on the field at the banners of Rohan and Gondor. "I don't know. She is not a handmaiden to Arwen, and so would have no obvious reason to come; nor would her husband. But then again, perhaps. Word has been sent to Rivendell; they know of our actions here. I warn you, things were dark there as well--I saw a great battle at the Ford of Bruinin. When war came, it came upon all the strongholds of the fair."
A shadow crept over Frodo's heart, but he could not say why. "You saw . . . through the palantir?"
Aragorn nodded. Then he smiled. "All is well; they repelled the attack. I cannot see everything, but I know that at least is true. Have patience. You will see her again, in time. For now, simply concentrate on regaining your strength. I intend for you to have a part to play in my coronation."
Frodo nodded and left. He caught a glimpse of Merry and Pippin as he walked through the tents of the armies, so flashing and bright in their rainment of green for Rohan and black for Gondor. Again, Frodo felt so distant, so cut off from events.
Is this the way elves feel, when an Age has passed for them? He wondered, staring off into the west. He thought he could see the thin spire of the white tower in the distance, framed from behind by tall grey mountains. He waited to feel something--anything, but within him all was cloudy, murky.
He strove to feel love, the love that had so burned within him those days in Rivendell.
But all he could feel was emptiness.
*****
TBC
*****
2nd Interlude:
(September 20, 1421, Shire Reckoning: )
Rosie was staying with her family; Sam cooked the meal, and it was delicious--leftovers of one of Rosie's meat pies, carrots, steamed cabbage, brown bread and fresh butter, and peaches with heavy cream--Frodo sat filling up the corners, taking a break from speaking, downing his beer in slow long swallows. He looked so tired, Sam thought . . . all the years of bearing the Ring lay heavily upon him, and something more besides. "You never spoke of her during the quest, sir. It had me sore troubled, but what was I to do? Didn't seem proper for me to bring it up seeing as you was keeping quiet on the matter, so I sort of fought to forget it. But I now have to wonder--what happened after? She wasn't with the marriage party that came from Rivendell with Arwen. Something bad happened, I reckon, but I never really found out what. You kept it close, Mr. Frodo; as close as ever a Bagginses could. Why are you so nervous to see her now?"
Frodo finished his beer and rubbed his hand--the maimed one--over his brow, as if to wipe away something. The memory, perhaps.
He spoke in a low voice, deep with regret. "Yes, Sam. Something bad happened. Bad, and wonderful, at the same time it seemed, and I'm afraid I reacted exactly wrong. I should have let her go after our perfect farewell. I should have been satisfied. But I wasn't. I tried to grab more . . . and lost everything. Including her love."
Sam shook his head, bemused that his dear master could have done such a thing, and even more that he had kept silent about it all this time. He cleaned up their supper, settled Frodo in his favorite chair by the fire, and settled himself down at his feet to softly rub Frodo's hand which often troubled him in the evenings, looking expectantly up at him not unlike a hobbit child waiting for its bedtime tale. Frodo smiled sadly, his eyes damp, and continued to tell his story.
*****
April 5, 1419, Shire Reckoning:
Frodo woke up first.
Just the fact he had woken up at all, when he never expected to, gave him reason to pause, to lie for a moment and contemplate things. He was awake. The air was clean--he could smell spring in the air, growing things, and something else--aethelas. How very strange. He hadn't smelled that since he left Aragorn and the others of the Fellowship to take the Ring . . . he wiggled his fingers. Yes. It was gone. The Ring, the finger, all of it--half his soul, gone. He glanced over at the other bed in the room and saw Sam sleeping and half choked on a sob. Was that really Sam, looking so pale and drawn and *thin*, big circles under his eyes and his lips swollen and chapped? Frodo licked his own lips. Yes, the same. But he had woken first. And where was, he, anyway?
"In Ithilien, and today is April 5th in the Shire Reckoning." Frodo turned and gaped. Gandalf?!
"You're alive?" he managed to ask. His voice was a mere whisper, thin and ragged.
"And so are you. A most remarkable outcome, if you think about it. Are you hungry? We did not expect you to wake today--truly you are stronger than you appear, Frodo Baggins. Some bread and soup, I think would be wisest to start with. We have been feeding you only honey water and broth." Gandalf was white, Frodo noted--entirely white, and more powerful than ever. How did he know that? Echoes--echoes of the Ring. He would be changed forever.
"That sounds fine. Will Sam wake soon?" What to say to Sam, who had carried him he didn't know how far in the last days, who must have neglected himself to make sure Frodo carried on, and who again after the end, after Gollum and the Ring fell into the Cracks of Doom, forced Frodo to keep going to try and save himself? Frodo's mind was awhirl. He was supposed to be dead. He wasn't supposed to have lived. What was life going to be now?
In a daze he ate what Gandalf gave him, saw Aragorn peek in on him--he didn't know what to say to Aragorn, who he realized was going to be King now. He didn't know what to say to anyone. He was in shock, he supposed. Everything felt like a dream. Then Gandalf gave him some juice to drink, and there must have been something in the juice, for once again dreams found him, and he slept. When he awoke, Sam was stirring and it was the next day.
Everything floated by in a dreamy sort of haze. The field of Cormallen, seeing Merry and Pippin, and sad sad Legolas crying out for the sea, and Gimli, and hearing strange tales of Ents and Merry's valiant strike against the Witchking--it all blurred together into some strange tale he should be reading at Bilbo's feet in the Shire. But he ached. His hand, and something else too--he would never be filled, never be at peace. Like a hollow shell he ate and gained strength and watched days pass, but he was somehow disconnected. He heard of the plans of Aragorn's crowning and hints of a possible wedding in the future.
And suddenly he thought of Mornenêl. He had survived; he had succeeded. What would happen now? Would she come with Arwen's wedding party, or would she still be in Rivendell when he eventually returned to the Shire? Did he have anything left to give her?
Aragorn was very busy these days--perhaps he was not yet King but he was commander of the forces that had gone to meet Sauron's army at the gates of Mordor--images flashed in Frodo's mind of the tales Pippin had told him, his mithril shirt held aloft, the depair, Pippin fighting a troll--a mountain troll--he looked so different in his Gondorian armor . . . Frodo fought to keep thoughts in order. He knew exactly what Sam was talking about when he said they'd have to sit Frodo down later to take it all down, take notes. He felt so lost most of the time now. A leaf in the breeze. Purposeless. Yes, that was it--his task was completed. He had no more tasks. And no more will to find a new one.
When he found Aragorn and tried to ask him about whether the rumors were true, Aragorn only shook his had and said they must wait. Not all was certain, yet. "In a few days we will return to Minas Tirith. You can see the city you helped to save. Just rest, Frodo. I know you are still recovering from your labors. Don't think of the future, not yet. Enjoy the present."
"If Arwen comes," Frodo asked, unable to hold back his curiosity, to do what Aragorn suggested, "If she comes, do you think Mornenêl will come also?"
Aragorn sighed, clasping his hands before him as he gazed out on the field at the banners of Rohan and Gondor. "I don't know. She is not a handmaiden to Arwen, and so would have no obvious reason to come; nor would her husband. But then again, perhaps. Word has been sent to Rivendell; they know of our actions here. I warn you, things were dark there as well--I saw a great battle at the Ford of Bruinin. When war came, it came upon all the strongholds of the fair."
A shadow crept over Frodo's heart, but he could not say why. "You saw . . . through the palantir?"
Aragorn nodded. Then he smiled. "All is well; they repelled the attack. I cannot see everything, but I know that at least is true. Have patience. You will see her again, in time. For now, simply concentrate on regaining your strength. I intend for you to have a part to play in my coronation."
Frodo nodded and left. He caught a glimpse of Merry and Pippin as he walked through the tents of the armies, so flashing and bright in their rainment of green for Rohan and black for Gondor. Again, Frodo felt so distant, so cut off from events.
Is this the way elves feel, when an Age has passed for them? He wondered, staring off into the west. He thought he could see the thin spire of the white tower in the distance, framed from behind by tall grey mountains. He waited to feel something--anything, but within him all was cloudy, murky.
He strove to feel love, the love that had so burned within him those days in Rivendell.
But all he could feel was emptiness.
*****
TBC
*****